


Glass Heart

by ProcrastinatingPalindrome



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, M/M, speculation on victor's past
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-21
Updated: 2016-12-21
Packaged: 2018-09-10 16:11:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,129
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8923750
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ProcrastinatingPalindrome/pseuds/ProcrastinatingPalindrome
Summary: Five times Victor Nikiforov cried (and one time he cried in Yuuri's arms.)





	

_i._

Victor is six years old, and the wind is howling outside his bedroom window. A flash of lightning illuminates the room and he stuffs his fingers into his ears with a miserable whine, but it’s not enough to muffle the terrible BOOM CRACK BOOM that follows. It sounds like the sky is going to break apart into a million pieces.

Tears burn his eyes and he grabs for Snowflake, his favorite toy dog with the floppy ears. The storm is a little less scary with Snowflake in his arms, but just a little. He wishes he could run to Papa’s room, but Papa would get angry. He’d be angry for being woken up, and doubly angry for Victor being scared of something silly like a storm, and triply angry for Victor crying about it. He would say, ‘You aren’t a baby, Vitya, so stop acting like one!’ And that’s right, isn’t it? Only babies cry when they get scared, and Victor is definitely not a baby.

He wishes Grandmother was here too. She would let him sit in her lap and pet his hair and sing to him until the storm quieted down, and she'd never get mad at him for crying like Papa does. She used to come over to watch Victor all the time, but she had to start working again, and now he can't see her very much. 'I'm sorry, Vitenka,' she said sadly, 'Times are hard.'

He wishes times weren't hard. He wishes he could go live with her, and she would cook his favorite foods and tell him stories. She would take him ice skating too, because that's his favorite thing in the world. He can skate without her holding his hand now, and can even go backwards a little bit (Grandmother looks so proud, she tells him he’ll skate in the Olympics someday,) but sometimes he still likes it when she holds his hand.

He wonders sometimes if Mama would have been like Grandmother, soft and warm and safe, but Mama went to heaven when Victor was too small to remember. Grandmother says Mama loves him even though she’s far away, but Victor isn’t sure. He’s tried to pray to her before, but he can never hear anything. Maybe he’s doing it wrong, or maybe Mama is just too far away.

A peal of thunder crashes through the night again, and Victor just can’t stand it anymore. He grabs Snowflake in one hand and a fistful of his blanket in the other and scrambles down to the floor, crawling under the bed and dragging the lot along with him. The wood floor is cold through his thin pajamas, but the tight space under the bed feels a little safer.

Another deafening series of cracks and booms, and the sound seems to go on and on and on. Victor tugs the blanket around him and hugs Snowflake tight, trying to blink back the stinging in his eyes. He’s not a baby, he’s _not,_ but he can’t stop the tears from leaking out.

Papa would be mad at him for crying again, but Papa isn’t here. It's just Victor, just Victor and Snowflake, and Snowflake won't tell on him. He takes a shuddering breath and presses his face into the soft, well-worn cloth of Snowflake’s back, until a wet spot starts to form under his eyes.

*******

_ii._

Victor is fourteen, and his legs ache terribly.

“Posture, Vitya!” Yakov shouts from the side of the rink. “I’ve told you a dozen times already! Again!”

He’s tried that stupid triple lutz a _hundred_ times already, but it just won’t come out right. He doesn’t understand. He _knows_ how to do this jump. He’s done it before! He can even do quads now, though Yakov yells at him for that. He should be able to do that triple lutz, easy, but…

He tries again. Wobbles on the landing.

“Watch your feet! You’re making the same mistakes over and over! Pay attention!”

He’s sore, he’s tired. Why can’t he do it? _Why?_ What’s the matter with him? He’s supposed to be better than this.

He clenches his teeth tight enough to make his jaw ache. Once more. He’ll do it once more, and it’ll be perfect this time, good enough to impress even Yakov. 

He jumps. And he falls, hitting the ice so hard that it knocks the wind out of him. For a moment he lays there, stunned and dizzy.

“-ya! Vitya! Are you hurt?” Yakov’s voice sounds like its coming from far away. Victor pushes himself up with some difficulty, still sitting on the ice as he tries to regain his bearings.

He fell. He fell on a jump he should be able to do. He fell in front of Yakov, who certainly isn’t going to be impressed with Victor or proud of him today. He fell, and he can feel the beginnings of bruises all over that will be ugly purple and yellow by tonight. He fell. He failed.

His gut clenches with the terrible ache of frustration and shame and disappointment, and to his horror, his vision starts to swim and blur wetly. He can’t start crying now, not in the middle of the rink, not with Yakov watching. He’s been pathetic enough today without having a complete breakdown in front of his coach.

He climbs back to his feet and skates to the side of the rink, hoping Yakov doesn’t notice his damp eyes. Something wobbles in his throat, like the beginning tremors of an earthquake, and it's all he can do to hold it in check.

“And where do you think you’re going now?” Yakov snaps as Victor steps off the ice, but there’s a note of concern in his voice under it all. Yakov always gets worried when Victor has a bad fall, even though he tries to hide it. Somehow, that makes Victor feel even worse. 

“I need the restroom,” Victor mumbles. His voice comes out as a miserable croak.

From the corner of his eye, he sees Yakov frown. Victor doesn’t ask for breaks often. “Are...are you feeling sick, Vitya? Is that why you’ve had such trouble today? I’ve told you before, you have to tell me if you aren’t well! I can’t read your mind! And I certainly wouldn’t be pushing you this hard if I knew you-”

Victor lets him continue the scolding and hastily unties his laces, trying to keep the lump in his throat from bursting. He wishes he _was_ sick. At least then he’d have a good excuse for being unable to land that stupid, stupid triple lutz. But there’s no good excuse. He could do it yesterday, and now he can’t, and he doesn’t understand and he-

“Vitya?” Yakov’s voice isn’t gentle, it never is, but it’s softer than it was before. “Vitya, tell me what’s wrong.”

It’s then that Victor realizes that despite all his efforts, a tear has leaked out and is slowly crawling down past the crease of his nose. He swipes it away angrily, but it’s too late, Yakov already saw.

He jumps to his feet, sick with humiliation, and bolts for the restroom. He only gets ten paces past his coach when the rest of the tears start tumbling down.

*******

_iii._

He's eighteen, and until thirty minutes ago he had thought he was loved.

"You didn't think we were serious, did you Vitya?" Andrey says incredulously, almost laughing. "We’ve barely been together three months! What were you expecting from me? A wedding ring?”

Victor clutches the phone so tightly his hand starts to cramp. He did think they were serious. He really did, until he saw the pictures online. Andrey, sitting in another man’s lap, dancing with another man, kissing another man. Andrey, not the least bit sorry when Victor calls him a quarter ‘til midnight, hurt and furious.

Andrey is an actor, three years older than Victor, with the most beautiful hazel eyes. Andrey seems to float through life with such casual grace, unbothered and unconcerned. Victor loves that about him. _Loved_ that about him.

“I expected you not to cheat on me,” Victor grinds out past the burning in his throat, and he’s a bit pleased that he sounds more angry than heartbroken.

“My god, Vitya!” Andrey sounds exasperated, annoyed, like he’s trying to explain something very simple to child. “This was just a fling! It was never going to last between us! I hooked up with you because I thought you’d be fun. And you were, really! You were a good fuck, even if you didn’t know what you were doing.”

‘You were my first,’ Victor thinks desperately, but he keeps his mouth shut. His lower lip is starting to tremble, and he’s afraid of what will come out if he tries to speak. Andrey had been so patient with him that night, when he was fumbling and scared and didn’t know where to put his hands. Andrey had laughed warmly and told him not to worry when he accidentally ended it all much too soon, and combed his hands through Victor’s hair.

Andrey was always touching his hair. Casually braiding it when they sat together on the coach in Victor’s apartment, talking about their grand dreams for the future. Giving his ponytail a playful yank whenever Victor wore it tied up. Twisting a lock around his finger and bringing it to his mouth for a kiss. ‘Beautiful, Vitya. You have the most beautiful hair.’

Victor had been called beautiful before, by the press and by his fans, but it never made his heart skip a beat until he heard the word from Andrey’s lips.

“Listen, I don’t have time for this tonight,” Andrey says at last with a frustrated sigh, as if Victor is the one in the wrong, as if Victor is only inconveniencing him. "You were fun, Vitya. Best of luck." And the line goes dead. Victor stares out at nothing, hot tears dribbling down his face and a sob bubbling up in his chest.

It was all nothing in the end. Andrey’s smile, Andrey’s laughter, Andrey’s touch. What was it all? Just a game? Just a passing fancy? Andrey’s frown when he’s thinking, Andrey’s terrible taste in music, Andrey’s allergy to everything with fur, Andrey’s—

_Andrey’s fingers in Victor’s hair._

Victor stumbles to his feet, to the kitchen drawer, scrubbing angrily at the tears that won’t stop coming as he digs through the contents: a roll of tape, paperclips, an assortment of pens that don’t work. He fumbles blindly in the dark until his hand closes around what he's looking for: a pair of scissors.

*******

_iv._

He's twenty five, a few days shy of twenty six, and drinking terrible cheap wine on the floor of his apartment.

It’s awful stuff, really, but he’s drinking to get drunk, and it’d be a shame to waste good alcohol on what he knows full well is a pathetic pity party.

Four consecutive Grand Prix gold medals. That’s incredible, isn’t it? He’s on top of the world. He could get anything he wanted now, any _one_ he wanted. He could simply show up at any bar in the city and people would flock around him like butterflies to a flower, ready to celebrate his latest triumph.

But he doesn’t want any of it.

And next season he’ll do the same thing, and maybe it’ll be _five_ consecutive Grand Prix wins and…what does it matter?

What good is any of it? The fame, the glory, the money, the cheering crowds? It all seems so pointless. It’s everything he wanted and dreamed about as a child, but there’s no joy in it anymore.

It’s a terrifying thought. All his years of work and devotion, and in the end he’s empty, hollow, drowning himself in cheap wine to he doesn’t have to think about how meaningless it all is.

It’s pathetic. He ought to be happy. Instead he feels so dreadfully alone. He takes another gulp of wine, and spills a bit on his shirt.

Everyone wants a piece of Victor Nikiforov, the star athlete, the living legend. Everyone wants a picture, or an autograph, a moment of his time, a place in his bed. They want him when he’s perfectly confident and charming, landing quads and breaking hearts with just a smile and a wink. But who would want him like this? Is there anything worthwhile left under that golden veneer of fame and success? He can’t remember who he was before all this. He’s not sure he was _anyone_ before all this. And when it all ends? What does he become then? Maybe nothing at all. Maybe he’ll step off the ice one final time and fade away into smoke, and no one will remember anything of him at all except for his broken world records, his medals won, but nothing more.

Makkachin's sudden whine jolts him out of his misery for just a moment. His dog has come to sit by his side on the floor at some point during all this, wagging his tail anxiously and peering into his owner’s face.

“Sorry, Makkachin,” Victor chokes out, and realizes abruptly that there are tears on his cheeks. “I’m not feeling well tonight.”

Makkachin doesn’t judge him for his weakness. Makkachin doesn’t leave when he’s less than perfect, doesn’t expect anything more from him than a bowl of food and a walk and a rub on his belly. The thought makes Victor’s breath catch and stutter into hiccups, but Makkachin doesn’t fault him for that either. He just gives Victor’s damp face a lick and then leans his full weight against his owner, warm and heavy and comforting, and stays there with him on the floor until the alcohol and weariness lulls Victor to sleep.

*******

_v._

He's twenty seven, alone in the vet's emergency room after midnight, when he realizes that he loves Yuuri.

The realization doesn’t come all at once. To be fair, there has been a lot to keep his mind occupied for the last twelve hours. But Makkachin is going to live. He has to keep telling himself that, because the anxiety is still a tight cord around his chest. Makkachin will be fine. The vet said so. He just needs to be on a soft food diet and take some medicine for a few days, and he’ll be good as new. They’ll hold him for a few more hours of observation, just to be sure, and then they can go home. Everything is fine. Except that it isn’t at all, not with Yuuri alone and thousands of miles away…and it's Victor's fault. He should have stayed, should have insisted, but he's weak and selfish and his heart was torn in two between the man he loves and his oldest companion. 

The vet is a kindly older fellow who thankfully speaks English and explains everything carefully to Victor, and lets him sit on the floor next to Makkachin while the poor dog sleeps off the anesthetic.

“You’re Katsuki Yuuri’s coach, aren’t you?” the vet says conversationally, while checking Makkachin’s vitals. “I’m afraid I don’t know much about figure skating, but I do know the Katuskis. Always such a nice family. I was Vicchan’s vet too. Did Yuuri ever tell you about Vicchan?”

Yuuri has told Victor about Vicchan, with a nervous blush as he admitted who the dog was named after.

“Yuuri was such a shy boy, but we always got along well. I came by the inn so often to visit the onsen, I suppose I was almost a strange uncle to him when he was growing up. He could be so quiet, but you know, all you had to do was ask him about skating and he’d bloom right before your eyes. Suddenly that meek little boy would have so much to say!”

Victor says nothing, just keeps petting Makkachin’s head, careful to keep his hands far away from the IV attached to his paw. He always wanted to hear more about when Yuuri was a boy, but now it just makes his heart ache.

“He would talk about you, too,” the vet continues with a smile. “I can’t imagine how delighted he must have been when you showed up in Hasetsu! He always admired you the most. He would tell me all about your routines, your jumps, the records you broke. But what I remember the most clearly was the day he brought Vicchan in for his yearly shots, and told me that you had cut off all your hair.”

Victor’s hand freezes in the act of scratching Makkachin behind his ear. He doesn’t know what to say. He isn't sure he wants to hear any more.

“He was so worried about you. He was afraid maybe you had gotten your heart broken, and that was why you cut your hair. I asked him what he thought about your new look, if he liked it more or less than your long hair, but you know, he didn’t care about that a bit. He said, ‘I just hope Victor isn’t sad. I’d hate for him to be sad.’”

It’s almost too much to bear. Victor remembers feeling the cold breeze against the back of his neck, suddenly so exposed without his long hair, remembers the media digging and digging as they tried to find the reason, remembers all the gossipy pieces about whether Victor looked better or worse, if this was a smart change for his career or if it destroyed his image. And all that time, across the world, there had been a little boy who only wished for Victor to be happy.

But Yuuri isn’t a little boy any more. He’s a grown man, and he’s seen the Victor who isn’t perfect and shining in front of the cameras, the Victor who loses his clothes when he gets drunk, who doesn’t know how to handle an emotional crisis, who gets insecure about his hair. And Yuuri still cares. Yuuri, sweet brave Yuuri sent him away because he didn’t want Victor to suffer, never mind Yuuri’s own struggles. He was willing to face his fears, the awful anxiety that’s always plagued him, just to save Victor from pain. How did Yuuri ever think he was weak?

The vet is a kind man, and he pretends not to see when Victor’s eyes fill with tears. “I have a few other patients to check on,” he says gently, standing back up after giving Makkachin a quick pat. “I’ll be back to see how Makkachin is doing in a few minutes, but of course you can call for me if you have any concerns.”

Victor nods weakly, and waits until the door closes behind the vet before wiping his eyes on his sleeve with a shaky sigh.

He loves Yuuri. Strong, kind, beautiful Yuuri. He loves him. He loves him. He loves him so much it hurts.

*******

_i._

He's still twenty seven, and he can feel the cold winter air of Barcelona leaking in around the hotel room’s window.

“Let's end this,” Yuuri says, voice firm and eyes steady, and Victor is sure his heart stops in that moment.

“Don't misunderstand,” Yuuri continues, because Victor isn’t speaking, can’t find his breath or form words, “I'm more grateful than I can say for the eight months you've been my coach. But I-I don't think things should continue like this. You've been wonderful, more than I deserve, but I'm ready for this to end.”

This isn’t right. This doesn’t make any sense. They were _happy_ yesterday. There’s a gold ring on Victor’s finger and a matching one on Yuuri’s hand.

“I don’t understand,” Victor says, because he really and truly doesn’t.

“I’m going to retire after this season, Victor,” Yuuri says, and drops his eyes for the first time since the conversation started, “You had your own life and career before all this happened, and I want you to be free to return to that.”

“What brought this on? Is this about today? Your short program? You have plenty of room to come back tomorrow-”

“No.” Yuuri still isn’t looking at him, and his hands are clenched where they rest on his thighs. “I’ve been thinking about this for a long time. Today just…helped me realize that this is the right choice. You won’t have to be my coach after this season ends. I won’t tie you down any longer.”

 The room is so cold now. Victor’s hair is still dripping from the shower, skin still damp, and now he thinks a layer of ice might form over him as he sits, trying to process what’s happening. “What did I do wrong?”

Yuuri’s head snaps back up, alarmed. “Nothing! It's nothing you did, really, you’ve been so wonderful-”

 “No, no, I must have done something.” His hands are starting to tremble, and he grabs at his bathrobe to make them stop. “Please tell me what I did. Was it something I said, or didn’t say but should have? Please, you have to tell me. Let me fix it.”

Yuuri just shakes his head, and Victor thinks he might be sick. His happiness is collapsing all around him. He had thought he was building a home for the two of them, but it was just a house of cards all along, blown over by a gust of wind. _Please don't leave me. I can't lose you. I can't lose this. I can't go back to how I was._

Yuuri’s eyes are too bright now, his breath starting to wobble. “I can’t hold you back, Victor. I can’t keep you from where you’re meant to be. It’s not right. I couldn’t live with myself if I did that to you.”

“We were happy.” The words come out small and desperate past terrible lump forming in Victor’s throat. “We were so happy just yesterday. Please, please…I don’t understand. Why is this…why are you…?” He takes a shuddering breath and lowers his head, stares hard at the carpet that’s starting to blur before his eyes. “Why do you want…w-want to leave me?”

“Leave you?” Yuuri sounds honestly surprised. “I'm not leaving you. What are you talking about?”

“You’re…” Victor stops, blinks hard twice. It doesn’t help clear his vision at all. “You said you wanted…wanted things to end between us.” It hurts just to repeat those words, and he has to bite down on the inside of his cheek to hold back the sudden urge to sob.

“No! No, I…oh god, Victor, I just meant ending our relationship as student and coach! I didn’t mean that I...oh no, Victor, I’m so sorry, please don’t cry…”

“I’m not,” Victor says to the floor. It might have been more convincing if his voice didn’t wobble and hitch so badly. He wipes the back of his hand quickly across his eyes and finally finds it in him to look back up at his…what is Yuuri now? Is he still Victor’s fiancé? Boyfriend? Student? Everything is suddenly so confusing.

Yuuri is all but ringing his hands in distress, and his eyes aren’t much drier than Victor’s. “I-I've made such a mess of this,” he half-groans. “I just wanted to talk about our careers and the future and I wanted to say this the right way so it didn’t sound awful but instead I said it the worst possible way and I-”

“Yuuri.” Victor says his name cautiously, carefully, like a prayer or a plea, and it seems to bring Yuuri back down from the burst of anxiety.

“I’m really sorry, Victor. I never meant to upset you like this. I-I just want you to be happy.”

“I _am_ happy,” Victor says, and can’t stop his voice from breaking just a bit. “ _You_ make me happy.”

Yuuri’s smile in response is fragile and unsteady, but at least it’s a smile. He pushes up his glasses to rub at his eyes and sniffs quietly. “You make me happy too. But there’s more than that. Ice skating makes you happy too, doesn’t it?”

Victor has to stop and think about that for a moment. “It did, once. But it’s all right, Yuuri. I’m almost twenty eight. I’m ready to retire. You don’t need to be worrying about my career.”

“It’s just…” Yuuri sighs, and picks restlessly at a loose string on his sleeve. “I don't want you to have any regrets about this. Last year, after the Grand Prix, I thought I was ready to stop. And maybe I would have been okay if I had retired and never skated competitively again and never won another medal. Maybe I could have been happy without any of that.” He meets Victor’s gaze again and there, there’s that spark and fire in Yuuri’s eyes that Victor loves so much. “But I think I would have always regretted it a little if I had given up there. You’re the one who gave me my second chance. You’re the one who helped me move forward and live without regrets. And I…I can never thank you enough for that.”

Victor swallows down the sudden surge of emotion in his throat and nods. It’s almost hard to look at Yuuri when he’s like this, when he’s glowing like the sun.

“So the least I can do is return the favor,” Yuuri continues, leaning forward a little and reaching across the gap between them to touch Victor’s hand. “I don’t want you to retire just because you think you have to for my sake. If you really want to retire right now, if you can look me in the eye and tell me honestly that this is what you want, that’s fine. But…but if you have any doubts, if you think you might regret not taking that last season to get closure and say goodbye to…to all of this, to all you’ve done and worked for and accomplished…then I want you to skate one last season. Either way, whatever you choose, I'll still be with you, every step of the way.”

A long moment passes before Victor is able to speak again. “So you…you won’t leave me? You’re...going to stay?”

“I'm not going anywhere,” Yuuri says gently, and tightens his grip on Victor’s hand. “I mean, if that's what you want. I'll stay with you for as long as you want me to.”

“And if that's forever? If I want you to stay with me forever?”

Yuuri’s smile is so warm, like the spring sun thawing away the winter ice. “Then I'll stay with you forever.”

Victor opens his mouth, tries to breathe. There are so many things he wants to say, but suddenly his eyes are flooding again and all that comes out of his mouth is an embarrassingly loud sob.

“Oh…oh, Victor. Shh, come here…” Yuuri holds his arms open and Victor doesn’t think at all, he just lurches forward and collapses into the warm embrace.

“I was _scared_ ,” Victor gasps against Yuuri’s shoulder, and god he sounds pathetic and childish but he just can’t stop now. “I was so scared, Yuuri…”

He can’t remember the last time he’s cried in someone’s arms. He ought to be ashamed. He’s sobbing harder than he has in years, and the gulping noises he keeps making are so ugly and undignified, and he’s probably making a mess of Yuuri’s shirt with tears and mucus…but Yuuri just keeps holding him tight and rubbing his back until he’s exhausted himself, and Victor isn’t sure he’s ever felt more safe than he does in this moment.

He’s utterly drained by the time his tears run out. His eyes are sore and his head hurts and if there was no Grand Prix to worry about, he thinks he could sleep for a week. He wonders, not for the first time, how Yuuri managed to skate so magnificently in the Cup of China after crying so hard in the parking garage. But then, Yuuri has always been so strong. 

“Are you okay?” Yuuri asks carefully when Victor finally leans away from him.

“I’m very tired,” Victor says with a weak laugh. “And I have a lot to think about now.”

“You don’t have to skate another season if you don’t want to. I just wanted you to…to have a choice.”

Victor nods and reaches across the table for the box of tissues. He’s calmed down, but his nose is still a drippy mess. How unpleasant crying is. “What about you, then? Do _you_ really want to retire? I have nothing but faith that you'll take the gold medal tomorrow, but regardless of what happens, are you all right with stopping there?”

Yuuri opens his mouth, caught off guard, and closes it again awkwardly. “I…I’m okay with it, if it’s for you-”

“No,” Victor says flatly, and gives his nose one last hard blow.

“N-no?”

“No. If I'm not allowed to give up my career for you, you aren't allowed to give up yours for me. The only way I’m skating one last season is if we do it together. There’s no point to it at all if you aren’t by my side.”

Yuuri’s eyes nearly pop out of his head. “But I—that’s? We can’t! How could we make that work? You can’t work on your own program and coach me at the same time, that won’t—”

“Yakov can coach us.” The idea occurs to him just in this moment, but yes, this could work. They could make it work. “I know he wants me to come back. I’ll just tell him that I’ll be his student again for one more season only if he coaches you too. How could he say no? We can live in my old apartment together, and I’ll show you the city I grew up in, and we’ll train together every day—”

“That’s such a ridiculous idea,” Yuuri says, but there’s a huge smile stretching across his face all the same.

“And you know what the only problem with this arrangement is?” Victor continues, feeling a grin starting at the corners of his mouth too. “We’ll be too busy training next season to properly plan our wedding. I suppose we’ll have to put it off another year. Do you think you can stand a slightly long engagement?”

Yuuri blinks at him, eyes going wide. “So the…the engagement is still on?”

“Why on earth wouldn’t it be?”

“I-I don’t know, I wasn’t sure…after all I put you through...”

“Yuuri.” Victor’s voice is flat, unamused. “Did you somehow miss my solid ten minutes of hysterics because I thought you wanted to leave me? You’ll have to pry the ring off my finger if you want to call the engagement off now.”

Yuuri just stares at him for a long moment, and suddenly bursts out laughing. It’s the most beautiful thing Victor’s ever heard.

“I'm sorry I'm so stupid,” Yuuri wheezes at last, wiping tears from his eyes.

“I think I'm pretty stupid too,” Victor says, smiling sincerely at last as he takes Yuuri’s hand and lifts it up to kiss his ring. “So can we be stupid together, for the rest of our lives?”

Yuuri beams, and leans in for a proper kiss. “There’s nothing I would like more.”

*******

_epilogue_

Victor is twenty nine years old, in the absurdly over decorated bathroom of the upscale wedding venue, splashing water on his face at the sink. He stops, wiping the drips off his chin to keep them from wetting his tux, and examines his face with a frown.

In the mirror he can see Yuuri standing behind him with a hand towel at the ready, smiling fondly and with just a hint of amusement. “Any better?”

“No,” Victor groans as he takes the towel and dabs at his face. “My eyes are still too red. I thought the water would help more.”

“You look a lot better than you did, really. Right now it just looks like you’ve got some mild allergies.”

“I’m _blotchy_. It’s unsightly.”

“Well, that’s what happens when you cry.” Yuuri pauses, and gives his own reflection a critical look over. “How about me? Do I look all right?”

 Victor turns his attention to his husband and leans close to look. “Not bad. Your eyes are a little puffy, but it's hard to see unless you get close. Your glasses hide it well.”

“Should wash my face too?”

“If you want. I think you're okay how you are.”

“I think I'll pass, then. With my luck, I'll spill water all over my clothes. Anyway, there's not much point to it. There were...how many people did we end up inviting?”

“A little over six hundred.”

“Right. So a little over six hundred people watched us get all choked up through our wedding vows.” He shrugs sheepishly, mildly embarrassed at most for crying in front of a crowd of hundreds, and Victor has to take a brief moment to marvel at how his confidence has grown in just a few short years. “It's not like it's a secret. Why try to hide the evidence now?”

“So we look beautiful in our wedding photos, of course.” Victor sighs, leaning close to the mirror again. His eyes are still too red and swollen. Yuuri might not be a pretty crier, but at least he recovers fast. Victor wishes he had such luck. “This is so embarrassing. What will the tabloids say about me tomorrow? ‘Five time consecutive Grand Prix gold medalist bawls his eyes out at his own wedding.’”

Yuuri snorts at him, but his smile is still warm. “The ‘two time consecutive Grand Prix gold medalist’ you married wasn’t much better. And I wouldn't say you _bawled_. I think bawling is supposed to be louder. What you did was more...blubbering.”

“Blubbering? I'm insulted. _You_ blubbered, dearest Yuuri, I was...weeping? No, that's not it...oh, I can't think of any more words in English. We need a thesaurus.”

“What we actually need is to get to the reception," Yuuri says, giving his husband's elbow a tug. “They can't start the party without the grooms, can they?”

“Just a bit longer.”

“Come on, you look fine. Very handsome.”

 “Do you mean it? You aren't just saying it because I'm so irresistibly charming?”

That earned Victor a pinch, and a scolding look that was far too theatrical to be serious. “You know, the longer we take in here, the more people will start to speculate that we're up to something a lot less innocent than cleaning up.”

“Less innocent? I can't begin to imagine what you're implying, Yuuri. Care to...enlighten me?”

The grin Yuuri throws his way is downright wicked. “After the party, maybe. Now really, we need to get going. Do you think Chris brought the pole?”

“I explicitly told him not to, so he's probably setting it up as we speak.”

“I thought as much. We better go put a stop to that.”

“Oh darling, it's our wedding! Can't we have a little fun?” Victor pulls out his most adorable pout, and Yuuri melts like butter.

“Fine,” he allows, and any attempts at looking serious are ruined by the grin that keeps stretching across his face. “The pole can stay. But I want to dance with you all night, every dance we know. You probably should stay away from the pole. I'm not sure you have the stamina to keep up with me _and_ try pole dancing.”

“Now that sounds like a challenge, dear husband!” Victor cries in mock offense. 

“I'm not going to stop you from trying, but I won't go easy on you if you start getting tired halfway through the night!”

“So harsh! I've married such a hard-hearted man!” Victor wails, pretending to cry into his hands.

“Oh, hush,” Yuuri laughs, brushing away Victor's hands and standing on his toes to steal a kiss. “You know I love you.”

“And I love you,” Victor says softly, wrapping his arms around his husband and holding him close. “With all my heart.”

They're lingering too long, he knows, but Yuuri allows it and returns the embrace warmly for a short, blissful moment before pushing back with a small laugh. “You know I love your hugs, but we really do have to be going.”

Victor smiles at him, his heart so full it just might burst. “I suppose you are right. After all, we have a full night of dancing ahead of us, don't we?” And with that he pulls open the bathroom door with a little bow and a flourish. “Ready, Mr. Katsuki-Nikiforov?”

Yuuri smiles back, bright and beautiful enough to put the sun to shame. “After you, Mr. Nikiforov-Katsuki.”

**Author's Note:**

> This is actually the first time I've ever written anything with in that 'five times' style. It was a new experience for me, so I hope you guys enjoyed it!


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